


Scintilla

by KandiCryptid



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Arachnophobia, Body Horror, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Angst, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Angst, Depressed Morality | Patton Sanders, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gaslighting, Hurt Morality | Patton Sanders, M/M, Morality | Patton Sanders Angst, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Starvation, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Temporary Amnesia, Unsympathetic Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, established intruality, one sided moxiety - Freeform, with losleep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29233749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KandiCryptid/pseuds/KandiCryptid
Summary: *Repost because I accidentally deleted the original, am looking for anyone who may have the missing chapter seven??Please???*Virgil wants Patton back. He has no idea where he is, but he knows that he's missing. He knows because Patton would never be laughing with Remus as they exchanged dirty jokes. Patton would never be dying his hair blue at three in the morning with Roman or having a drinking contest with Logan. He knows Patton, and he knows that this impostor is not him.He also knows that he hasn't seen Janus in weeks. He knows him just as well.Desperate to save Patton, Virgil takes it upon himself to force Janus to reveal himself, no matter what it takes.Note: The only reason this is rated mature is for violence and dark themes. There is no sexually explicit or graphic material, aside from implied/referenced/remembered nonconsensual kissing and physical contact. Basically, nothing that wouldn't be in a YA novel.
Relationships: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders/Sleep | Remy Sanders
Comments: 9
Kudos: 23





	1. A vague prologue of things to come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's some things you will need to know:
> 
> 1) Yes, Virgil is unsymp, but he does have... kinda good intentions. He does terrible things, but he means well. Most of the time. Honestly, he gets worse before he gets any better.  
> 2) This will get hella dark. I have a bunch of stuff in the tags, but I'll list more thorough TWs before each chapter in the summary.  
> 3) Just have fun reading this rollercoaster of fun things :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs: Mentions of self hate, mention of non-consensual kissing

The Room’s as dark as always. Its inky blackness, cold and numb, reaches every inch so that he’s completely blind, completely helpless. Not that there ever was anything to see. It was always empty, except for the man and Him. The remains of what used to be a lamp lie scattered on the floor.

But the man’s used to that by now. He’s used to the black. He doesn’t like it, not at all, but there was nothing new to it. There was a time when he couldn’t bare toFat least open his eyes in fear of it, but not now. Without Him, there was nothing to fear because He controlled the dark. Without Him, the black was a friend, a shield. It protected him from things he didn’t want to see.

But he could never get used to the silence. It’s the sheer quietness in the Room that leaves him forever on edge. It’s a powerful, all-engulfing quiet that drills into his head and never leaves him alone. Sometimes he’ll hear voices he knows aren’t there. Or random sounds. Sometimes he’ll hear a short scream followed by birds chirping, and he wonders if maybe, just maybe, they’re real. But he always realizes that they’re not, and he’s not anywhere closer to being free.

But even the quiet was nice at first. Welcome, even. It was a break from His voice. He was always loud, always grating, always worming his way into his ears and heart and spine. The man wasn’t sure if He even meant to do it. He doubted it—it must hurt His throat after speaking like that for so long. But the voice never stopped. Even now in the silence it was there, though He was nowhere to be seen.

It’s driving him crazy. He knows it is. He wants out. He wants his name back.

The man wants many things, but doubts he will ever get them.

He’s already given up on that.

But more than anything, against it all, he still wants his name back. The one he has now is fake and bad and evil and dirty and—

He’s not actually certain why it’s so bad. Why he is so bad. But that was one of the things He said the most. The man had latched onto that fact early on. The other rules had to be laid out for him, as stupid as he was. There are many rules, but they’re helpful. They keep Him happy.

One: his old name is a bad word, and he shouldn’t say it because it’s untruthful and stolen, and stealing is Wrong. The man hates being Wrong. Being Wrong meant getting hurt.

Two: he needs to do whatever He told him to do. If he didn’t, He got mad. That was dangerous.

Three: he should always show his scales. Even though the man knows they aren’t his, that he had never had scales before. But He insisted that he has scales, and He liked to be right, so the man gave himself scales. It’s much easier that way.

Five: never ask where the others are or what they’re doing. The man can vaguely remember there being others like him. He could almost remember a living room with a brown couch and nice people that would never hurt him. The one time he did ask, He was furious, and explained that those were false memories. They can’t be his because he wasn’t there, so he had to be lying. He was Wrong again.

The man lies a lot nowadays. He knows that it’s bad, but it also seems good. It keeps him from getting hurt so much, as long as he’s convincing. He was awful at it at first, but he got better at it. Now he likes —hates?—loves?—needs?—to think of himself as a master of it. A self-proclaimed Lord of the Lies.

He hates himself for it. He hates himself for being Wrong.

He hates himself for being so damn bad.

There were always more rules, but those are the ones he holds closest. They’re the ones he rattles off to himself in silence, if only to think about something other than the feeling of deadness surrounding him.

That worked for a while.

Not long, though.

Nothing ever works for long. He knows this much.

He tried to list them aloud once, but he couldn’t do it. Not when the shadows around him were always threatening to silence him again, just like all those other times. He hates the shadows. They aren’t like the dark; the dark is constant and protective. The shadows are sly and ever-moving, and they’re obedient to only Him. And even though his brain screams that the shadows don’t move without Him there, he still can’t bring himself to do it. It’s just too risky.

The man, amid a plethora of supposedly untrue thoughts, is constantly reminded of those shadows.

Shadows twisting around him, holding him down while He works.

Shadows invading his mouth, as if to scrape the lies from his tongue.

Shadows forcing their way into his dreams, then him waking up in panicked fits because he wasn’t even safe in his sleep when He was near. Than again, sleep wasn’t safe even without Him.

So, it’s more than a relief when, one day, something breaks those shadows up.

It’s ecstasy.

But it’s also fear.

He feels raw terror when the heavy door of the Room swings open, letting in a flood of silver light. He expects to see Him. Usually He’d just appear from the shadows themselves, but he’d come through the door occasionally. No one else ever came, so he had no reason to believe it wasn’t Him.

But soon, a new feeling joins his terror: curiosity. Curiosity because there was only one of Him, and yet there were five people in the doorway.

The first physical thing he feels is pain. A blinding, stabbing pain as the light hits his eyes for the first time in God-knows-when. He gasps, hands flying to his face. He nearly cries out but stops himself on instinct, instead tilting his head back in a silent scream.

Then there are things moving around him, touching him, that he can’t see. And the sound. There’s so much sound that it hurts, and it’s filling his head too fast and he can’t process it.

Every touch he flinches back from is replaced by two more as memories of shadows flash through his mind, and he wants to retch. He feels something warm brush his face, and all he can think about is the disgusting feeling of His lips against his.

His heart pounds in his chest, but none of it stops. The voices only get louder, the touching more frenzied. He feels himself being lifted up, something he used to want but not anymore, and he tries to pull away, but he’s too weak. Being held tight, too tight, is suffocating. He can’t see and his ears hurt and he doesn’t want to be touched and he wants to say something but he can’t —won’t— get the words out and he’s scared.

He can’t breathe, he just can’t, and he can’t think. He can’t lie his way out of this one because he has no idea what they want him to do.

Then it stops.

Not the overwhelming feeling of dying, of course, but he suddenly feels a little more free. Less like he was being buried alive and more like he was in a too-tight sweater. The feeling of being enveloped is still there, but it’s not actively trying to hurt him. He wishes his brain could get the memo. His thoughts still race along with those stupid, stupid memories, and they won’t stop.

After a moment he realizes that he’s back on the cold ground of the Room. His eyes finally recovering, he lets himself peek through his fingers. The door is open a crack, just enough to light the room without it hurting his eyes. And there’s only one person. Risking a look, his stomach flips when he sees it’s not Him.

It’s someone from the false memories.

But if they’re fake, if they’re lies, then how is he right here?

Is he making this up? Is this in his head? Maybe he’s finally gone crazy.

What if this is all just one of His tricks to show the man how awful he is?

He can’t see this new person in detail, but he can block him out like a gesture drawing. Thick glasses, blue tie. Black shirt, worn jeans. Clothes so dark he nearly blends in with the room.

But the man can tell he’s not a shadow. Shadows, even when He gives them “eyes,” don’t gaze at him with compassion. They don’t scrunch up their forehead trying to get a better look at him. They don’t need to.

After a long moment, his heart has started to slow, but it’s still pounding, as if preparing itself for what’s to come. All the while he’s trying to think of this newcomer’s name. But he can’t find it, and it’s frustrating more than anything. Resting his eyes on the tie, he settles on calling him “Blue.”

Blue puts a shaky hand towards him. It’s slow, not at all how He would grab him.

Actually, Blue doesn’t grab him at all. He simply hovers, perhaps debating with himself on what to do. Finally he makes a decision. He takes a deep breath and retracts his hand.

Watching it leave, the man can’t decide if he’s happy or not.

Blue swallows, a single word leaving his throat. It’s hoarse and scared, and the man can’t blame him. It’s a bad word, after all.

But Blue, apparently very rebellious, still says it.

“Patton?”


	2. A strange miasma of blue...ness?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Asphyxiation, dislocation, implied sexual abuse/assault, (All as vague memories); Panic attack

Patton is about to die. He can feel it in every cell, every fiber of his being as the pain in his chest and neck reaches a fever pitch. He coughs and splutters against the bile rising his throat. His hands claw at the boot crushing his airway, themselves desperate for release before they lose feeling and drop to the floor. His nails scratch weakly at the concrete floor. Legs giving out as well, his knees knock together before falling flat.

And then there is His face. Almost completely cloaked in shadows, just a sliver of skin is visible in the lamplight. What little he can see is contorted into an animalistic snarl. His lips curls back, exposing sharp canines glinting dangerously from Patton’s place on the ground. But as his eyes roll into his head, vision fading to black, even that is lost.

He takes one last shuddering breath, then dies.

At least, he should. He hopes he can.

But then the scene changes, and he’s alive again.

Now, his arms are joined by four more that flop limply to his sides. The two usable ones are bound with thin chain to hoist them high above his head. Agony burns in his shoulders as bone scrapes against bone, and he wonders how long it will be until they dislocate completely. He usually lasts less than an hour. Arms can only take so much weight, especially when they’ve been disused for as long as his have been.

Sure enough, they soon do. The sickening pop-crunch of his shoulders wrenching from their sockets is masked by the pain, and he throws his head back in a guttural scream. His back arches into violent spasms. His extra arms flail with each pained jerk, which just manage to make him feel sicker. He tries to tell himself that they aren’t his arms, they aren’t; he has always had two arms, but He says he has six and isn’t He always right?

The scene changes again.

He knows what it is instantly.

Now free from the chains, his back flush with the floor, He sits eerily close. He’s close enough so Patton can make out tear tracks making their way down his face and splattering on concrete. His breath ragged from sobbing, He scoots even closer until their legs touch. Patton, already knowing what this means, feels a lump forming in his throat.

He hates what happens next. He always does. He hates how He’s on top of him, His hands running down Patton’s scarred torso. This feeling, once exciting and electric with someone he can’t quite place, feels so, so wrong. It makes his skin itch with burning shame and riles up his stomach to the point where he’s certain he’s going to be sick. The touch never lasts too long, thank God. He gets what he wants and leaves, His face still wet.

But that doesn’t matter.

It still happens. Not often, maybe, but those times still sear into his brain.

He hates it.

He hates Him.

He hates himself.

The next thing he see is darkness, but not like the Room’s. He can’t see it, but he definitely feels it: shadows shifting and moving and crawling around him. Then there’s a little prick on his back, tiny and delicate in the pitch black, but he recognizes it and he stiffens. It grows until he can feel individual pricks, eight of them. They reach from his lower back up. Suddenly, something grazes his neck and he can’t help what happens next.

His heart explodes.

His lungs refuse to inflate.

His head spins away from his body.

His racing mind trips and crashes into the void.

He still can’t die, but it sure feels like he is.

Patton wakes with a choked scream. Voice raw from disuse, the sound tears through his throat, setting it on fire. But he still screams. Curling into a tight ball with his knees pressed painfully into his bruised chest, he doesn’t move. He can’t.

He can’t process, can’t calm down. The dream doesn’t fade. Instead, it stays fresh and vivid in his mind as it replays on loop. He feels himself sink down into something soft as he twitches, which he recognizes is odd, since the concrete is always hard and cracked. But he doesn’t dwell on it, and blames it on another lie his body tells him, which seem to get more common by the day. All he can focus on is his need for oxygen and safety, though neither of them come easily.

He still can’t breathe when he feels something on his shoulder. It moves when he instinctually flinches away, but he can’t tell. It’s soon replaced by a voice, quiet and soothing, and for a second, he lets himself sink farther into the soft concrete.

“Patton,” the voice says. He only curls into himself more at the mention of his na—

No, not his name. That’s a lie.

“Patton,” it says, a bit louder.

It’s there again. Why is it there?

“Patton, I need you to breathe with me.”

Breathe. He wanted to breathe. Why couldn’t he?

“In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Just like V— just like always.”

He doesn’t know how long it is until he calms down. The entire situation seems to simultaneously rush by and drag on, and the whole time he’s in a strangely familiar miasma. Hesitantly he eventually opens his eyes. At first, he’s surprised at seeing not only light, but also a body. He has to blink a few times to realize that no, it’s not Him; it’s Blue.

Patton likes Blue so far. He likes his pendulum-like tie and silky shirt, and how neat and collected he is. It’s different than what he’s used to, but it’s a nice different.

Moreover, Blue insists that he won’t hurt him. Patton likes that. He especially likes that now that he’s calmer and can see him sitting beside him on the bed.

That’s right. He’s on a bed, not concrete. Patton chides himself on being so stupid, then tries to unfurl from his ball. It feels odd. Terrifying, even, to lower his guard like this. Part of him, the part that’s still reeling and nauseas, is telling him to get away. He needs to run and run and run, away from the dark, away from the shadows, away from them. He shouldn’t be with them.

But another part wants him to stay in this sweet warmth. He wants to relish in the softness of the bed and Blue’s gaze, all safe and comfy. At least, as safe as possible. Every part of him says that he’s definitely not safe-safe; maybe he’s okay for now, but he can’t get used to it. He has to be ready.

So, he stops himself from uncurling completely and leaves his knees bunched together as he forces himself up, only to face Blue’s outstretched hand.

“Wait,” Blue says, and Patton stops in his tracks. Had he done something wrong? But instead of hurting him, Blue just sighs and gestures to him. “I don’t think you should get up right now.”

Patton cocks his head in confusion. He had thought that they would want him up as soon as possible, and he was awake now. “Why?” he asks.

Blue lets out a gust of breath, pushing his glasses up to rub the bridge of his nose. “You’re too injured for moving to be safe,” he says “It’s better to keep you here for right now.”

For the first time since he was taken, barely an hour ago, Patton gets the chance to look around. The room he’s in isn’t bland, but definitely minimalistic. Other than the bed, the largest things are the bookcase and the desk that sit on the wall, along with a myriad of hanging shelves. The books in the case make a sort of rainbow, which he absolutely loves, but the best part is the smell. It’s somehow fresh and old at the same time, like a cart of new books at a library.

Deciding he likes the room, he still can’t help the wave of fear that comes with not knowing where he is. As if on cue, Blue clears his throat and says, “Don’t worry. You’re in my room now.”

“Your room?” Patton questions, hoping to get an identity without having to ask. He didn’t want to seem stupid in front of him. He flinches when Blue gives him a confused scowl.

“What do you mean? You’ve been in my room before,” he says.

“Your?”

“Yes, mine. It’s no one else’s, I assure you,” Blue says, raising an eyebrow. “Is something wrong?”

Unable to look him in the eye, Patton settles for staring at his tie. Blue steps closer. “Is it all right for me to examine you? Or just some questions, even? You’ve been gone for nearly six months, and when we finally find you, you’re... not in the best condition. We just want to help,” he says. Patton’s breath hitches.

Six months?

It feels like so much longer.

But here it is. The information is right in front of him, and he has no reason not to believe it. He wants more, though. He wants more information, if only because knowing it might keep him safe longer. Neither of them say anything for a long moment.

“Pat?” Blue says. “Are you okay? I know this may all be confusing, but we want to help, I swear. But to do that, I need to know how you are.”

Taking a long breath, Patton says the one thing he can think to do, no matter how much his brain screams at him to stop. He wants to know, and he has a feeling that this is the only way to do that.

“Who are you?”


	3. "Good" and "bad" are very subjective terms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: None that I can think of, but let me know if you see something!

Patton can hear Blue’s gasp, although it’s barely audible. Even his own breathing stops, as if to ready himself for inevitable punishment. After all, He gasped and huffed all the time. Most of those times were in frustration, if not outright anger, which always make things bad. Patton curls back into himself even tighter than before. His heart speeds up again, and the dying feeling starts weaseling its way into his mind. 

All the while Blue stares at him. His eyes seem to burn holes in Patton’s scales (or is it skin now? It feels almost slimy, and his scales were never slimy), harsh but also confused, his face contorted in disbelief. His fingers that before had been fiddling with his tie are still, falling beside him. Patton barely sneaks one last peak before burying his face in his shirt. 

His body braces for impact. His muscles clench automatically, making his ball even firmer. It’s useless, he knows, but it helps. It feels safe. Even if it’s a fake kind of safe, it helps. 

He sits like that for what seems like an eternity, wallowing in their silence. He’s terrified and on edge, but at least no one can say that he was a coward now. At least he had tried; he had asked the question. Isn’t that good enough? He wants to think that it is. 

But no blows come. 

There’s no screaming, no yelling, no growling of hissing. 

There are no shadows yanking him from the ground. 

There’s nothing forcing its way into his mouth. 

There’s no Him. 

Instead, all he can sense are Blue’s shallow breathes whistling past his lips. He doesn’t bring his eyes out, though. He doesn’t dare to. This might just be another trick, and he’s not going to fall for that again. A minute ago he might have been safe, but who’s to say that didn’t change? Everything always changes, and he has to be ready. 

But he’s still not ready for the reply. 

“Who... what? What are you even talking about? You know us. You know me. What are you saying?” Blue says, the words streaming out in a rushed jumble. Patton finally looks at him. His face is even more distorted than before, this time with less disbelief and more fear –-horror? -- disgust? -- disappointment? 

He swears he sees Blue’s eyes glisten. It’s just a glint, just an infinitesimal gleam as the light hits him right, but it’s there. He sees it. 

Patton tilts his head. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he mumbles, drawing Blue’s attention to his shaking hands. He tries to hide them, but he can’t seem to make them do what he wants. He whines in frustration, mentally cursing everything for being so damn hard to do. 

Wrapping his tie tight around his hand, Blue shakes his head. “But you can’t just—you're a side, for God’s sake. You’re not —we’re not--” 

Patton stares at him. Eventually, Blue apparently understands that no, he’s not joking, why would someone, even Patton, joke about this? With that realization, he slumps down beside him. “I need to take you to the others,” he says, his voice catching slightly. “I’m sorry. I know you likely don’t want to, but we need to.” 

Others? Of course, Patton thinks. Of course there are others. They were the ones who had found him and touched him. They were the ones who made his ears want to bleed. His heart skipped at the thought of them. 

But Blue trusts them. 

Does he trust Blue? He sure wants to. He wants to be safe. 

But it’s just so risky. 

He doesn’t react for a while, only shifting uncomfortably when Blue keeps staring at him. He feels like a bug under a microscope—something small and helpless, used only for observation, at the mercy of every other being in the universe. That analogy, he decides, fits well with the room’s aesthetic. 

After another too-long bout of quiet, Blue dips his head. “Okay,” he says. Defeat edges his voice. “Not right now. You can rest first, and we can discuss in the morning.” 

Patton breathes a relieved sigh before frowning. Noticing, Blue puts on a scowl of his own. “What’s wrong?” he asks quietly . 

“Nothing,” Patton says. He can’t help but notice the fuzzy tiredness in his head, and he wonders how long it’s been since he’s been able to actually rest. Not just rest, but actually sleep? In the Room, something was always keeping him from it. It was the shadows or Him, or the silence, or even just the rough concrete grinding away at his sensitive scales (skin?). The blankets and pillows feel better, but he still can’t shake the awful, itchy feeling, even when clouded with exhaustion. 

He absentmindedly rubs his fingers along the scales. They feel gritty, and he knows that’s not good, but he decides not to bring it up. He just wants to sleep. 

But Blue has other plans. 

“Something is wrong,” he says. “and I want to help. What can I do?” 

Patton wants to sleep, but he can’t. What can Blue do about that, anyway? “Nothing,” he repeats. Blue gives him a sad look. 

“Please,” Blue says, nearly begging now. Then his eyes trail to Patton’s hands. “Is something wrong with your... physical form?” He asks. The way he says it is hesitant, like he’s walking on eggshells. Patton stops his hands, and Blue scoots closer, getting his phone out. “May I?” He asks, turning on the flashlight. 

The bright light hurts his eyes at first, and he grimaces as he looks away. Blue has an apologetic expression, but doesn’t turn it off. Patton nods. 

He sees the light coming closer even while facing away. Part of him wants to run. Blue being this close makes his skin prick, but in some ways, Patton wants him close. He just wants to know exactly what he’s going to be doing, so he can be prepared. 

Blue, having caught on to this, starts explain what he’s doing. “I’m just using the light to examine you,” he says. “If your... new developments? Is that what I should call them? Are in any way injured, the healing process could be delayed,” he says. “I won’t touch it without warning you,” he adds. 

That calms him down a bit, enough for him to even hold his arm out. Not much, but a least it’s a little, and Blue takes that as permission to continue. Running the light over his arms, he makes little noises. Patton can’t tell if they’re of surprise or disgust or something else, and suddenly he feels another wave of self-consciousness , but he keeps his arm still. He doesn’t want to disappoint or, even worse, anger him. 

After a while the light shuts off, and Blue leans back. His face is taut. “Thank you,” he says. “You can sleep now. I would do more, but I feel that you are not in the right mindset for it. So, we can start treatment in the morning.” 

Treatment? 

Patton wonders what “treatment” entails. It could mean a lot of things, not all of them good. But he trusts Blue. For now, at least. 

He finds himself surprisingly sad when Blue gets up to leave. The bed fills back in, and it feels much emptier than before. 

It feels almost as empty as the Room. 

But he doesn’t say anything as Blue walks out, even when he says a quick “Goodnight.” He can’t himself to. It’s as if the shadows are back, about to fill his mouth if he dares speak. It’s worse when the door shuts, leaving him in total darkness. 

He can’t help but chide himself. He had gotten used to this, used to being in the dark. It wasn’t supposed to bother him anymore. 

But it did. 

It did very, very much. 

As soon as he shut the door, Logan looked at the faces of everyone in the hall. 

Roman, his mouth curled back in a furious snarl, his eyes aflame as he stared down his brother. 

Remus, looking equally as vicious but more melancholic ( apologetic , even) than anything else. 

Janus, his eyes dazed as he alternates between twitching and nodding off. 

Thomas, his face blank but obviously terrified . 

There is no Virgil. Remus had made sure of that. 

Logan has to fight the urge to just sink to the floor. His mind is bombarded with images that better suite Remus, not himself. Definitely not Patton. Yet here they are. 

He catches a sob in his throat. He can’t get emotional right now. He has to stay strong, he has to be there for everyone now that Patton can’t. 

It is Thomas that breaks the tense silence. “Logan?” he says. “Is he okay? Are you okay?” 

“ Of course I am,” Logan says. They all look at him skeptically. 

“Well?” Roman juts in. “What’s wrong with him?” 

Logan thinks. What isn’t wrong would be a more precise question. It would be much easier to answer. “A lot,” he decides on. Roman makes a growling sound, and Janus startles, whipping his head around blindly. 

Roman shoots Remus a scathing look. “That’s your fault,” he spits. 

“Why are you blaming me for this?” Remus says. “I had to make a hard choice, and I stand by it.” 

Roman narrows his eyes. “People got hurt.” 

“People would have gotten hurt anyway! And don’t even start with that ‘people’ thing. We all know you mean Patton, not Janus. You don’t give a shit about him,” Remus says. Janus twitches at the sound of his name, but says nothing. 

“Guys, stop. Just... just stop,” Thomas says. “We can deal with that later. Okay, Logan. Do you think you can explain anything?” 

Logan swallows. He has many suspicions and theories, none of them good. “I’m not entirely sure at the moment,” he says. “But I do know that we can’t fix this alone.” 

Thomas’s brow wrinkles . “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means we need Sleep,” Logan says. Noticing Thomas’s confusion, he clarifies, “Not the act of sleeping. I mean the function.” 

“Remy?” Thomas asks, confusion only growing. “I didn’t even know he’s a side.” 

This time it was Remus who clarifies. “He’s not,” he says. “but he’s still a function. What the hell do we need him for?” 

“Well,” Logan begins, “sleep --the act, not the person—has many goals. One of those is memory retention,” he says. 

“Memory? Is something wrong with his memory?” Roman asks, a bit panicky now, no longer glaring as Remus. 

Logan nods. “It seems like it. He—well, he has no idea who I am, and I doubt he’ll remember any of you.” 

Roman and Thomas’s hands both fly to cover their mouth, and Remus simply tenses. Janus does nothing. Logan can see the pain in their faces, and he hopes he has masked his own. The idea of Patton forgetting them makes a stone grow in his stomach that he’s certain is going to tear him apart any second. He sees Remus’s trembling hands form a tight fist. 

“This... this is his fault,” he says. He sounds like he’s nearly crying, but his head is bowed, so Logan can’t tell. But he can imagine his eyes glistening, and it does nothing to help his own situation. 

All Logan can do is grit his teeth in silence, fury steadily joining horror.


	4. Rivalries are Fun Until You Start Withholding Information

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: none that I can think of? Please tell me if you spot one, though!

It’s never been a secret that Logan and Remy have a healthy rivalry at best, and pure enmity at worst. While they’re rarely openly hostile, it’s not uncommon for them to get into long arguments about, among other things, Thomas’s sleep schedule. That is very important, of course, and a main issue between them. But it’s not their sole problem.

Another is simply their personality differences.

Logan: classy, professional and alert. He’s always ready to help when he needs to.

Remy: wild, much too casual and barely there at all. Sometimes it seems like he doesn’t even care, and maybe that’s what makes him even worse.

That’s what Logan believes, anyway, and it’s exactly what he’s thinking when Thomas says he’s ready to summon him. “Thomas, please,” Logan says with a mental groan “It’s late. And while I did say we need him, I didn’t mean this instant. Patton is stable for now.”

“Yeah, but--” Thomas looked at the others now, who were strangely silent. “but what if he can do something now? What if he gets worse overnight because we didn’t do anything?” he says, a kind of desperation on his face. The kind Logan has always been always weak to. He wants to help him. He also wants to help Patton. Even if that that means summoning Remy. Then again, he may not even show up, so maybe he wouldn’t have to deal with it until morning after all.

Logan walks over to his host and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. He isn’t actually sure how it’s possible for them to touch him, being imaginary, but right now he’s grateful for it.

“I don’t think he’ll get worse in a couple hours. While I’m not entirely certain of the extent of the damage, he’s safe now, and I seriously doubt that sleeping will do any harm,” he says.

Remus pops his head up at that. His eyes sharpen and his nose scrunches, and Logan stares at him in anticipation. Usually, any sudden movements from Remus mean that he’s about to do something stupid, dangerous, or both. Or, he’s looking for a target. But Remus’s gaze doesn’t set on him, or even Roman or Thomas. It’s on Janus, whose head is also up. Janus mouths something silently, though Logan can’t tell what it is. Thomas looks at him in worry.

“He’ll be fine,” Logan says, trying to get Thomas’s attention again, who sighs before putting his head in his hands.

“We need to do this now,” Thomas says, his voice quiet. “I don’t know why I know, or how, but I do. The faster we can talk to Remy, the faster we can fix this.”

Logan is silent for a long moment. He doesn’t want to summon Remy. He really, really doesn’t. His heart’s warring against his brain; the ache in his chest says to get over himself and do it, all the while his head wants nothing to do with Remy. There’s that part of him screaming not to do it, that he would only make everything worse, and Thomas didn’t need that right now.

“Logan?”

The voice pulls him from his thoughts, and it registers vaguely as Roman. His face is downcast, and it looks unnatural on his face.

“Yes?”

“Can you at least tell us what you saw? That would sure help us—well, Thomas, I suppose—make a decision,” he says, glancing at Thomas.

Logan asks himself if he even has the right to explain. Patient confidentiality seems pointless in this situation, since they would all see the visible effects soon enough. But it’s still Patton’s business.

But isn’t it Thomas’s, too? If Patton is a part of him, then this trauma, both mental and physical, is his, too. At least a little.

“I’ll just tell Thomas for now,” he says. Roman looks like he’s about to protest, but Remus slaps a hand against his mouth with a comically loud smack. Apparently getting the message, Roman sits down on the floor close to where Janus sits in a small heap. Logan doesn’t miss how Roman edges farther away every few seconds.

Abruptly, Logan grabs Thomas’s hand, sinking them both out into the kitchen. The ideal place would be Logan’s room, but with that out of the question, the kitchen is private enough. While Thomas gets his bearings — he could never get used to sinking out — Logan looks looks at the ground. By now there’s a sob in his throat, but he’ll be damned if any of them know about it. Thomas finally takes a last shaky breath, and Logan feels he needs to start off the conversation, if only to keep it on track.

“It’s bad,” he says. It vague and he knows it, but it’s the only thing he can manage.

“I kinda already guessed that,” Thomas says. There’s a hint of tired annoyance in his voice.

“I know, I know. I’m just warning you,” Logan says. “I don’t want it to be too much for you is all.”

Shaking his head, Thomas's hands curl into tight fists at his side. “Maybe it is. Maybe it’s too much. But that can’t stop me from knowing,” he says. “You told me before that I have the right to know anything that happens here; all I just have to ask. Well, I’m asking. Help me help him.”

Logan swears he’s going to die if this keeps up. His internal war is wearing on him. He can feel it in how his eyes sink into their sockets in their need for sleep, in how his fingers struggle to move.

“Please,” Thomas implores again. “I need to know.”

Logan nods and adjusts his glasses. “Okay, what do you want to know about first? The physical damage, or the mental kind? Please note that most of what I’ll tell you is theory, since I have no real way of know—”

“Physical first. I… I want to know what to expect, so I don’t accidentally offend him by staring or anything,” Thomas says.

Before answering, Logan has to make a mental block. He tries his best to distance himself from the imagery, to ignore the fact that this is his friend, not just some random person on the street. He forces himself to swallow the lump in his throat, and hopes that these unwanted emotions go down with it.

“Well,” he starts, “there’s the injuries themselves. I didn’t get a good look in the dark, since the light irritated his eyes, but what I did see was obviously purposeful,” he says with one long breath ripped from his lungs.

“What kind of injuries?” Thomas asks quietly.

Logan sighs. “I’m not sure exactly,” he says. “I’ll have to look later.”

Thomas slumps against the counter, his eyes closing. “What about the, well…”

“The slime-like substance we felt when we first rescued him?”

Thomas dips his head, the closest thing Logan will get to a nod right now.

“I’m actually thinking that it’s mucus, not slime. From my short examination, it seems that Patton has developed some new traits similar to Janus’s, but from his own patron animal,” Logan says. He hates how detached he sounds, and hopes that he doesn’t sound too harsh. He just wants the facts out before they eat him alive.

Eyes flickering open, Thomas scowls. “You mean he’s half frog?”

“No,” Logan says. “Not half. From what I saw, it’s more of a random placement than a clear divide. And, honestly, I don’t even know if it’s frog. It felt… unusual.”

Thomas doesn’t say anything for a while, and Logan fears that he’s said to much. But he finally speaks up, and when he does, it’s weaker than ever. “Do you think it hurts?”

He sounds so childish right then, so worried and scared, that Logan nearly wraps him in a warm blanket and calls him ‘kiddo.’ Nearly, anyway. He would never do that. It would be much too unprofessional.

“Not while he’s sleeping,” he decides to say.

“What about the mental stuff? You mentioned he can’t remember us.”

Logan nods. “From what little he’s said, he has little recognition of us. I’m not sure how far back his amnesia goes, though, so we could be making it sound worse than it truly is. Perhaps he’s simply confused and needs time to adjust.”

Suddenly, Thomas grasps his hands and pulls him until their faces are mere inches apart. His eyes, which were sad and dark just seconds ago, are now alive with a burst of flame that reminds him a little too much of Roman.

“We have to see Remy tonight,” he says. “We have to. I know you said it likely won’t get worse, and that he needs to rest, but I think we should at least talk to him now.”

Pulling himself from Thomas’s tight grasp, he fixes his tie while taking a steadying breath.

This is hard, he thinks. All these emotions getting in the way, messing things up.

But at the same time, he knows that he’s already lost the debate. Or, rather, he never had a chance to begin with. Thomas is the host, and he always gets the final say. Even if Logan thinks otherwise.

So, faced with this fact, Logan bows his head in defeat.


	5. Whipped Cream

Thomas insisted on walking back instead of sinking, which was fine for Logan. It gave him more time to squash the remaining lump in his throat and to get just enough air to clear his racing mind. By the time they got there, he’s could comfortably assume that no one could tell he had nearly cried. They both had to take in the surprisingly calm scene.

Roman had risen from the floor and now stood with his sword drawn, his fingers running up and down its shiny surface. If Logan didn’t know him as well as he did, he could say that he was ready to attack. But he knew better. His sword was a comfort item, and if it make him feel better, Logan could easily ignore it for now. He had to try harder to ignore the clear look of disdain Roman was giving Janus.

Meanwhile, Remus had sank to the floor in his place, and Janus’s head was sleeping in the crook between his neck and shoulders, his limp legs slung over Remus’s. Watching Remus card a hand through feathery hair, Logan had to force himself to get back to the issue at hand. They could deal with them later, but now was not the time.

The twins perked their heads up as they walked in.

“Well?” Roman asked, his voice tight.

Logan nodded. “We’ll summon him tonight. I’m not sure how much that’ll accomplish, but we can try,” he said.

“Yeah,” Thomas added. For a moment, he glanced at the door to Logan’s room. His brow knitted together into a deep scowl. “How do I even do this?” He asked.

“It’s like summoning any of us. Just say his name. Well, function, I suppose. I don’t know if he’d like you using a name he technically never gave you,” Logan said.

Thomas’s eyes widened. “Why didn’t I know any of this before?”

“You never asked,” Remus said with a curt shrug. “Now hurry the fuck up.”

Sparing a last look at them all, Thomas said, simply and clearly, “Sleep.”

Nothing happened, and Logan suppressed a groan.

“Sleep,” Thomas said again into the silent hallway. There was no reply. Roman fidgeted more with his sword, and Remus took Janus farther into his lap. Logan felt bile rise in his throat. He had known this would happen.

“Sleep? Buddy, you there?” Thomas asked, his voice smaller by the second. “I don’t get it. I’m doing it like I would you all.”

Sighing, Logan ran his hands along his face. “Of course it didn’t work. He’s never here, anyway.”

“Not true,” Remus exclaimed. “If he’s never here, then how come Thomas sleeps at all?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah, well, it’s what you said.”

“Guys,” Roman says. Turning to Thomas, he slid his sword into his scabbard. “We all know that Sleep’s not exactly like us. Maybe we need to… tempt him?”

“Like in the Shorts?” Thomas says.

Roman smiles. “Exactly.”

Now, Logan could openly admit that Roman was by far the best at conjuring. Anything Patton made tended to be unstable and ultimately unusable, if not dangerous. It wasn’t his fault. He was always fluctuating, being the embodiment of emotions, and that bled into his conjuring.

Logan was okay at it. At least his products were safe. But his creations were too often mundane and common, usually exact copies of things Thomas had seen recently. His real issue, though, was the fact that he was rarely able to at all. He needed to know the plans, data and structure of anything he made. Anything else would be illogical: how could matter be made of nothing? Everyone knows that things don’t simply pop into existence.

Virgil occasionally made things. But these were usually comfort items, either for him, Thomas or the other sides. He could draw on the feeling of the thing, rather than the composition.

But Roman could dream up anything. He could imagine all day, creating worlds and characters and plots and subplots to fill the imagination. He could conjure anything if he tried hard enough. Remus was likely the same way, though Logan hadn’t studied him in detail. He had no clue about Janus.

But in any circumstance, he had to admit that he admired Roman’s power.

Usually.

Except when he used that power for overly trivial things that could be easily made without him showing off.

Now was apparently one of those times, as Roman flicked his wrist. A large mug, light brown with gold lettering, appeared in his hand. A smile lit up his face as he breathed in the steam. “What’s more tempting for him than hot chocolate with… let’s see… two shots of espresso, a dash of cinnamon, a pinch of nutmeg and a dollop of the imagination’s finest whipped cream?”

Thomas’s short snicker cut through the painful awkwardness of before. Logan didn’t see what was so funny, but he said nothing. Thomas took the mug, careful not to burn his hands.

“Sleep?” He tried again, calling into the empty mindscape apartment. “I have something just for you! It smells super good, so come and get it before Remus inhales it or something,” he said, ending with a short whistle.

Nothing happened for a long moment, and sour disappointment sat in Logan’s chest heavier than ever.

Then they heard a voice.

“Honey, first of all, don’t whistle at me like I’m a fucking dog. Second, give me that.”

Then Sleep was there, complete with his jacket and sunglasses, snatching the drink away. He brought it to his mouth and took a gulp. “So,” he started when he pulled away, “you’ve never actually asked for me before. What’s new? Finally realized my irresistible charm?”

Remus giggled, and Thomas frowned. “What? No. I didn’t even know you existed before now.”

Sleep shrugged, then took another sip as he eyed the group with narrow eyes. Logan couldn’t help but feel like a bug under a microscope, as if Sleep was in control now. Which, in a way, Logan supposed he was. He was the one with knowledge, and knowledge was power. Especially now.

“Tommy, I’m literally a fan fav’ at this point,” he said.

Thomas groaned, running his hands down his face. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, okay? I never thought to ask. But I have now, and I want you to help. Please?”

At that, Sleep brought his drink from his face, pushing his glasses up to look him squarely in the eye. “You what?”

“I want—no, need—your help,” he said again.

“He’s right,” Roman said. “Even the heroes can’t do it alone this time.”

Logan didn’t mention how, without it being said aloud, he was fairly certain that Remus and Janus were not included in his “hero” category.

Remus nodded enthusiastically nonetheless. “Yeah! We can’t unfuck this shit now. It’s that bad!”

Sighing heavily, Sleep set down his cup before flopping lazily to the floor. “You know, I’m actually starting to think about forgiving you for ignoring me all this time. But what about our dearest Logan? Doesn’t he have some sweet words, too?”

Logan, previously quiet and almost lost in his head, snapped to attention. Sleep was asking for kind words from him of all people? Sleep, who had butted against him for years? It didn’t seem right. But then he looked at Thomas’s pleading eyes, and he forced out, “Perhaps we are in over our heads here. Figuratively, of course.”

Then Sleep smirked, with a smug wink in Logan’s direction for good measure. “Alright,” he said. “What’cha need from me?”

All of them were silent for a moment, and Sleep’s smirk faltered. Logan was tripping on his words, trying to get them out as calmly as possible, but Remus somehow beat him to it.

“It’s Patton. He got messed up,” he said, much quieter than before. He returning to stroking Janus’s hair before conjuring a small, slightly wilted flower to stick behind his human ear. Logan made a note to study his abilities later. It might be useful, after all.

“Messed up? You’re gonna’ have to be a little more specific.”

Logan pulled his glasses off. “He—there was a, well, an incident with him and Virgil,” he said.

Suddenly, Roman whipped his head around to face him. “We still don’t know if it was actually Virgil,” he tsked. “I don’t think it was. V would never do something like that.”

Remus scowled. “He’s mean to everyone, though. Including you,” he said. “I don’t see how this is too far off from that.”

Roman put his hand to his sword’s hilt. Logan doubted it was for comfort this time, though. If the twins and been at odds less than ten minutes ago, then they were about to be at each other’s throats now. He gulped.

“Yes, he can be sarcastic and harsh at times. But squabbling between friends is nowhere near freaking torture. I thought you out of all sides would know that,” Roman said, his grip on the hilt visibly tightening.

Sleep scooted farther away, closer to Thomas, fear now apparent on his face. “Guys—”

“The only people I torture aren’t even alive. They’re like dolls made out of meat and viscera and shit. But him? The dude who’s literal job is to terrify people? Sure, he’d never hurt a fly,” Remus said. He stopped stroking Janus’s hair. “I mean, everybody just loves him, so of course he can do no wrong! He’s a soft, angelic cinnamon roll that automatically deserves your pity and sympathy. That’s perfectly logical. Right, Logan?”

Everybody turned to Logan. He could feel emotion rising in his throat like bile, simultaneously bitter and acidic. But before he could speak, Roman was talking again, much louder than before.

“Don’t you dare bring him into this. This is your fault, Remus. Not his, not mine, but yours,” he spat. “That,” he waved to Janus now, then to the door, “is your own fault.”

Sleep, apparently just now noticing him, frowned. Logan knew that he and Janus were on cordial terms, though he wasn’t sure of the extent. Were they friends? If he was thinking clearly, it would have irked him that he didn’t know, but it didn’t seem very important tight now.

Remus paled, and Logan wondered absently if he could stop an altercation if there was one. He doubted it. They had both weapons and experience, and he had neither of those things.

“What the fu—” Sleep said before being cut off.

“I had a hard decision to make,” Remus said. “There was no good choice. Excuse me for trying to do damage control and actually thinking about reality, something you can’t seem to wrap your sorry head around.”

Growling, Roman drew his sword. Thomas and Sleep shared a look of horror as he stepped closer to the sides on the floor, towering above them as Remus curled protectively around Janus. If he noticed, he didn’t stir. Sleep watched in concern as Remus hugged the limp body tighter to his chest. Janus was always much smaller, less muscular and more lean, and so seemed to sink into him.

“Reality? You want to talk to me about reality? At least my ideas my it to the real world. If anything, I’m more grounded than you ever are. All you do all day is play with whatever poor soul crosses your path. I do do work. I help Thomas,” Roman said, his voice tight with scorn.

That did it. Suddenly, Remus had lifted Janus up to place him in Logan’s arms, who momentarily staggered under the new weight before realizing that the person in his arms wasn’t very heavy. This left him free to blankly watch the scene unfold. Conjuring his morningstar in his right hand and reaching out with his left, Remus managed to catch Roman’s collar, pulling him to the ground. Thomas and sleep both shrieked, with Sleep jumping up, leaving his cup on the ground.

“Oh, for the love of—guys, stop it!” Thomas yelled over the loud clash of metal. He motioned frantically to Logan. Logan, in contrast, was eerily still. “Do something!” Thomas pleaded.

Logan heard him, in a way, but his brain proceeded to block it out.

What were they arguing about, again?

Was it Patton?

It didn’t seem like it was over him. Thomas, maybe? No, that wasn’t right, either.

His thoughts trudged along annoyingly slow. Usually, he was fine in situations like these. He could analyze and plan quickly frame by frame. But not this time. No, he was too distracted. Why was he distracted? He wasn’t entirely sure anymore. But the knot in his throat was back, and he couldn’t have answered Thomas if he could have formed a coherent thought, anyways.

He let himself focus on the person in his arms, how he seemed cool to the touch and how his shallow breathing pressed nicely against his heart. He liked the feeling of feathery hair against his throat.

And that was all he could think about.

Logan, at least for the time being, was dead to the world.

Was something wrong with Logan now, too?

Thomas could feel his breathing speed up until it hurt his throat, until he realized that he wasn’t getting air, until—

There was Roman, Roman was mad aga—

Then there was Remus, was Remus mad now? Maybe h—

Was Logan okay? Was he dyi—

Shit, was Remy Sleep okay? He sure didn’t look okay. He looked terrified. Thomas bet he did, too, even without a mirror. But then Sleep turned to him, his eyes frantic and confused.

“What do we do?” He asked.

Do?

If there was one thing Thomas did know, it was that he wasn’t the person to ask what to do. It rarely worked out well.

“Thomas,” he said steadily. “I need you to tell me what’s going on. What happened to Patton? What’s this about Virgil?”

Pat—

Virg—

He couldn’t breathe.

His mind was too fast, the fighting was too scary, and the hallway was too loud but also too muffled to hear past the blood roaring in his ears.

Then he felt him touching his arms softly, and he looked in Sleep’s eyes. They were a dark, earthy brown, comforting and soft. He led Thomas to the floor, getting him to tuck his shins under him so he was flush with the carpet. “Thomas,” he said again. “I’m going to do something, alright? It might be a bit scary at first, but when you wake up, everything will be calmer.”

Wake?

But he wasn’t asleep, was he?

Then Sleep twisted his hand (a sharp, jerky motion that had to have hurt).

The twins and their weapons fell to the floor, Logan and Janus were caught safely in Sleep’s waiting arms, and Thomas let himself relax into the floor.

When he woke again, Thomas had to admit that he did indeed feel much calmer. Thoughts still filled his head, of course, but not any more than they had before.

And he could breathe.

Breathing felt really freaking nice when he couldn’t do it mere moments ago.

Opening his eyes, he was relieved to see that, while everyone was awake, the fighting had finally stopped.

Roman sat directly beside Logan’s door, his head in his hands and his sword mysteriously missing from his side.

Logan was sitting beside Thomas, and his face seemed less blank. Definitely not as alert as usual, but from the way his eyes scanned the room, he could tell that he was at least processing it all.

Remus, surprisingly, was on the other side of Thomas. Which made sense after he thought about it. As well as being next to two people who could, in theory, restrain him, it was also the spot farthest from Roman.

Janus was sprawled in Remus’s lap again, but his eyes were open now. His breathing was still shallow, but by the way his fingers tapped every once in a while, he did seem to be getting feeling back in them again, which was good.

“Okay,” Sleep said from his spot, standing in the center of them. “I want answers. You called me here for a reason, and I came, so don’t any of you fucking dare pull shit like that again, understand?” Everyone nodded in unison, a collective murmur filling the hallway.

Sleep sighed. “Look. Obviously, whatever happened was bad. I get it. It must be hard to talk about. But if it’s important enough to drag me out at one in the damn morning, then you need to put aside whatever issues you have and spill. Like, right now,” he said. Thomas fidgeted awkwardly. He wasn’t even sure where to start. He had been counting on Logan to do most of the explaining, but he doubted that would happen now. Apparently sensing his discomfort, Sleep’s gaze softened, his brow relaxing. “Take your time, Tommy,” he said.

Thomas exhaled deeply. “So, maybe six months ago, Patton went missing,” he settled on saying.

“What?” Sleep exclaimed, confusion and what may have been hurt blooming on his face. He turned to the other sides. “You didn’t even tell me? Or Emile?”

“No,” Roman said quietly without looking up.

Eyes widening, Sleep clasped his hands together in exasperation. “Why? What the hell were you thinking? We could have helped,” he said.

Thomas looked at him blankly. “Emile?”

Sleep sighed, the ghost of a smile meeting his lips. “Yes, Emile,” he said. “Something tells me you’re gonna’ know a lot more about your mind when this is all over. Anyway, whatever. I don’t even care right now. Carry on.”

Clearing his throat, Thomas did the best he could to remember what exactly happened. It had all happened so fast after an absolutely empty six months, that he wonders if he remembers at all. He decides to be as basic as possible.

“Well, for those six months, Patton was just… gone. Virgil was really worried and anxious the whole time. More than usual, anyway. But we couldn’t find him. Couldn’t summon him, couldn’t sense him, nothing,” he said. Then he glanced at Remus, who looked away. “Except him, apparently,” he said dryly. Sleep looked at him in curiosity, his head tilting to the side.

“He says he was staying with Janus in the imagination a week before Patton first went missing, then he just stayed,” Thomas said. He felt a kind of guilty anger boil in his stomach. He tried to tell himself that none of them had gotten his version of the story yet, so there was no reason to judge yet, but it was hard.

Sleep snapped his fingers, pointing at Janus. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “that. What’s up with him?”

They all looked to Remus, who in turn looked at Janus.

“He coming out of torpor. He’s also starting a shed cycle. So, yeah. He’s not going to be very useful right now,” he said with a shrug.

Sleep scowled. “That explains it, I guess,” he said.

Thomas looked between the two, realizing that they knew something he didn’t, then getting back on track. “Anyway. Virgil’s all freaked out for six months. Then he comes back one day and he just… tells Roman to go to the imagination. No context or anything, just says to go to the border, whatever that is—”

The color drained form Sleep’s face, and he grabbed Thomas roughly by the shoulders. “The border?” He asked, turning to the twins, who both gave an uneasy nod, clearly as clueless as Thomas was.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said, “but what’s the border?”

This time it was Roman who spoke up. “It’s what separates the imagination from the subconscious,” he said. “I don’t think it’s ever been important, though.”

“What he said. I’ll tell you more later, but what happened next? What’s wrong with him?” Sleep asked, his voice growing panicked.

Thomas looked to Logan. He was fully alert now, though still obviously uncomfortable. “Logan?” he asked. “You good?” Logan nodded, taking a second to clean his glasses with his shirt. When finished, he slipped them back on to give Sleep a painfully neutral stare.

“Of course I am. I’m very sorry to have worried you. As for Patton, his physical form has been... altered, and it appears that he has a form of amnesia,” he said evenly.

“Shit,” Sleep huffed.

“What’s wrong?” Thomas asked.

“This is really fucking bad, that’s what. Do you know what exactly happened?” He said.

Thomas shook his head, followed by the others.

“What do you mean, exactly?” Logan said.

Sleep turned to stare at Thomas, his gaze hard and cold, a total 180 from its softness minutes before.

“It means that I have to talk to Patton,” he said. “Right now.”


	6. My gay mindmates put me in the closet and I'm salty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Please read me! Please!   
> Currently, the only chapter I'm missing is chapter seven, previously titles "Trauma's knocking at the door." It's very important and was quite taxing to write, so if anyone has access to it, please please /please/ help me out, maybe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tws: mentions of being in the closet (like, not coming out closet)

Thomas stared at Sleep, at his frantic face twisted with lines of concern.

“I have to talk to him,” he repeated.

Beside him, Logan shook his head. “He’s asleep right now. He needs to rest to heal,” he said.

“Honey, I can promise you now that rest isn’t gonna’ do much for him,” Sleep said, casting a side glance to Thomas, who sharply inhaled. He felt his heart speed up again and found himself wishing for the calm drowsiness that came from waking up.

Roman looked up and bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“It means,” Sleep said, “that rest won’t change anything that happened.”

Standing up to face him at eye level, Roman seemed to emit an aura of fear as strong as Virgil’s had been. “That doesn’t make sense. I get banged up all the time in the imagination, but it always heals,” he said. “Why would this be any different?”

Sleep growled, whipping around to glare at Thomas., saying, “I told you I’d explain later, and I will. But I need to talk to him now.”

Now it was Logan standing, twisting his tie around his hand, dropping it, and repeating. “I apologize for us not trusting you, but you haven’t exactly been the most reliable person in the mindscape,” he said, a twinge of acid in his tone that made Thomas wince. Then he continued, “perhaps if you made an effort to show up, we’d be more likely to believe you.”

Eyes narrowing, Sleep straightened. At his full height, he was a solid two inches taller than Logan, and he looked down with an angry flush settling on his face. “You know for a fact that I haven’t interfered before solely because of the risk. So before you jump on my ass, Logic, try thinking about the last time a side revealed himself.”

Remus stiffened, his grip on Janus tightening.

“Guys,” Thomas said from the floor. “Stop it, please. I don’t want any more fighting,” he said weakly.

“We’re not fighting,” Sleep said. “We’re doing what we always do. Not my fault he’s being a little bitch about it.”

Suddenly, Roman gave him a shove that sent him tripping over Thomas and crashing down. He landed squarely on Janus before Remus could move away. Remus, with a snippy shout, pushed him off and into Thomas. “What the actual fuck?” he shouted at Roman, who had a stunned expression. Thomas feared that he would get up to retaliate, but this time he just pursed his lips and buried his face into Janus’s caplet.

With a groan Sleep struggled to get up, but Thomas wrapped his arms around his torso, keeping him still in his lap.

“Nuh uh,” Thomas said. “Not this time, buddy.” Then he pointed to Roman, who only stared at the ground. “And you—what’s up with you today? You’re never like this.”

Roman sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just, everything is so messed up. It’s driving me crazy. This… this not knowing.”

“We’re all aware,” Logan said bitterly, his eyes never leaving Sleep.

In Thomas arms, Sleep seemed to relax, losing his fight. “That’s what I’m trying to help with,” he said. He looked around, eyes sliding from one side to the next. “I know you don’t have too good of an opinion of me, and I’m the first one to admit that I can be…” he looked at Logan again. “a major bitch, too. But I’m the only one that can really help here, and you know it, or you wouldn’t have summoned me.”

Thomas started to open his mouth, but Sleep cut him off. “I’m not trying to get you to accept me right away or some shit. Like, you literally just found out I exist. But if you care about Patton, which I know you do, then you need to trust me when I say that there are things I just can’t explain right now. You’ll know eventually. You all will. But for right now, I need to know exactly what’s going on alone , and you need to let me do my fucking job,” he said, finally going completely limp.

The hall was silent for a pause that was simultaneously too long and too short.

It was Remus who spoke first.

“I trust him,” he said. “and, if anyone, don’t you think I should be the one who decides?”

Thomas looked at him, a flash of puzzlement flashing over his face. “Why you?”

“I mean, we’re dating, so doesn’t that give me a little bit of priority? Just saying,” Remus said.

If Thomas had water, he would have spit it out. But, in absence of such a liquid, his body settled on choking violently on his saliva until Sleep slapped him hard on the back. “I’m sorry, you’re what?” he croaked.

Logan cleared his throat, a faint but noticeable splotch of red snaking its way down his neck. “They were in a romantic relationship before Patton went missing,” he clarified.

Roman took a long, drawn-out breath before covering his face with his hands. “Please don’t make us admit it any more than we have to,” he said.

Remus frowned. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked, turning to Thomas. “It’s the truth. We’re dating. And, Logan, don’t get me started on that ‘were’ shit because we still are. Nothing about that changed. Doesn’t that mean I kinda get the final say?”

Thomas could only look between them all. He had already had too many revelations, and it was only one in the morning. His chest felt flighty, his head fuzzy, and his mouth seemed full of cotton. This was all too much. Apparently noticing, Sleep took the opportunity to slither from his arms and kneel in front of him.

“We can talk about all this later. For now, it’s your call. You wanna decide, or let Remus? Doesn’t matter to me,” he said.

Conflict wanted to tear Thomas apart. It was an almost physical pain, one of indecision and fear. He could either risk hurting Patton, trust a person he just met, or let the literal embodiment of intrusive thoughts (who was apparently dating the person they were fighting over) to make a potentially life-or-death choice.

He had the choice to trust Remus, of all people.

Remus, who was currently protecting Janus.

Remus, who had always told him not to be ashamed of himself.

Did Thomas trust him?

Not really, no.

But he was willing to try.

“I’ll let him choose,” he said quietly.

Sleep nodded, looking down at the pair. Taking a deep breath, Remus gave a grateful smile. “ Go ahead,” he said. He resumed carding through Janus’s hair, which Thomas couldn’t help but notice he did a lot, while Sleep made his way past the other sides and into Logan’s room. The door clicked behind him. The others were left in tense silence.

Suddenly, Thomas clapped loudly, already resigned to the fact that he wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. “Alright,” he said.

The others snapped to attention, and although he felt somewhat uncomfortable with three pairs of eyes staring at him, he ignored it the best he could.

“Alright?” Logan asked.

Thomas just stared at them all right back, a tense kind of smile on his pursed lips. “So, it’s come to my attention that, apparently, I know pretty much nothing about what happens around here. Honestly, it’s making me feel real weird right now,” he said.

“Same,” Remus said. “Feeling a bit awkward, not gonna lie.”

Roman mock gasped. “Remus? Awkward? It must be the end of the world.”

Rolling his eyes, Remus’s casual, ever-present grin dropped. “It’s hard not to when you almost don’t get a single say in how your boyfriend is treated. Not to mention the fact that everyone winces at the thought of us,” he said. He turned to Thomas. “Sorry we didn’t tell you, but some people said that it would be ‘detrimental to your health,’ and did literally everything they could to keep us from saying anything .”

Thomas glanced to Roman and Logan. in shock. “What?”

Roman sighed, hugging his arms around himself. “We thought it would distract you if you knew,” he said. “So we just… hid it, I guess. Sorry,” he said.

Nodding, Logan said, “Correct. Roman, Virgil and myself believed that their relationship would disturb you, so we decided it would be best to keep that knowledge to ourselves. Apologies if that ended up making you uncomfortable.”

“What are you apologizing to me for? And, actually, how exactly did you ‘hide’ it?” Thomas demanded.

Thomas couldn't remember the last time he had actually been angry at a side. Frustrated, of course, and annoyed, but he couldn’t recall a single instance of being truly angry. So, it was a shock to feel an almost sickening anger bubble up in his throat. It only worsened when Roman looked down guiltily, and Remus stiffened beside him.

“Well?” Thomas asked. Logan cleared his throat before loosening his tie, which had seemed to look tighter by the second, at least to Thomas.

“We simply set a rule against taking about it around you, or really even us,” he said. “Nothing that could alert you to them. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Remus quirked an eyebrow.

“And we also —well, Virgil suggested this one— decided that it would be best for them not to do anything… romantic and stuff. Nothing that could be too telling. I guess… I guess that rule kinda grew, because eventually it got to the point where Virgil didn’t want them doing anything around us, either,” Roman said. Thomas could swear by now that his eyes looked wetter than before. He looked up to his brother, tears threatening but never falling. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It sounds so much worse when we say it aloud like this.”

“Yeah, well, it felt pretty shitty for us the entire time. Sorry if I don’t have much sympathy right now,” Remus said.

Thomas found the sudden mood change curious. The hallway had changed so quickly in a matter of minutes: terrified, fighting, terrified, relaxed, terrified again, uncomfortable, angry, and now sad.

“I’m sorry,” Roman repeated, dropping his head.

“Likewise,” Logan said. “We never meant to hurt either of you. I…I care about Patton, and wanted nothing but to keep both him and Thomas safe. And you as well, even if our bond is slower to develop. But I’m sorry for any pain we’ve caused.”

Remus shot Thomas an angry look. “Was it worth it?” he asked. “Are we damaging your fragile mind?”

“No,” Thomas said. He looked Remus in the eye, coming forward until they were just a few inches away from touching shoulders. “I may not understand you, and you scare me a lot, and this is really weird for me, but I’m not just going to stop you. It’s your and Pat’s choice, right?”

Sighing, Remus let himself relax into the floor. “Knew there was no point in shoving me and Patty in the closet,” he said.

Everyone, save Remus and Janus, winced.

But then Remus stiffened again, and he sat up, making the others turn to him.

“Thomas,” he said quietly, almost rasping.

“Huh?”Thomas hummed. It was strange to hear Remus use his actual name, and something about it made his stomach turn.

“What if he doesn’t remember me? What if, like, he never remembers, and he’s just scared of me? I like jumpscaring him and all, but I don’t…”

Remus’s voice hitched.

“I don’t want him to be scared of me. I really, really don’t,” he said. Facing Logan, he reached out, grabbing his tie and pulling him slightly forward. “Tell me he won’t forget me. Won’t forget—won’t forget us, dammit, I just…” he said, before dissolving into a fit of pained giggles. When Logan says nothing, Thomas knows it’s because he can’t tell him that and be truthful. “We finally get to tell you, and now it might be over. The irony,” he said, slumping into Janus, who had closed his eyes again.

Not knowing entirely what to do, Thomas did what he would do for any other side. He pulled him into a hug, not moving even when he felt tears smudge on his shirt. Eventually, he felt the others join them, and there they sat in a huddle on the floor as they all cried silently.

They were only interrupted by Logan’s door opening, revealing Sleep as he pointed to Logan.

“Get your ass in here,” he whisper-shouted, hitching his thumb towards the room. Logan pried himself from the mass of arms and got up, giving them one last look before closing the door behind him.

And then they were less another side, leaving the twins, Thomas, and a half-dead-half-asleep side in a cloud of solemn quiet.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's blank bc I'm missing the goddamn chapter

I've looked everywhere for it.  
I've gone through every archive and cache I can think of.  
Guys I really don't wanna have to rewrite this :(


	8. Patton gets a nice, relaxing bath :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: referenced self harm, nausea mention

Logan liked to keep his bedroom well-lit. He had several lamps, as well as an overhead light. Each had bright LED bulbs (that he could proudly say he conjured). While his vision was already ruined from Thomas’s years of cramming at the wee hours of the morning in high school, he preferred not to let them get worse. Thus, he insisted on having at least one light on at all times.

That’s what he’d tell you if you ask him, anyway.

Ask anyone else, and they’d say he was scared of the dark.

But no, Logan Sanders refused that thought. It was illogical and stupid. He was definitely, absolutely, positively not afraid of the dark. He had no reason to.

It was curious, then, that when Sleep dragged him through the doorway, a shiver ran up his spine.

Logan Sanders felt cold.

His eyes darted to and fro in the dark. Even Sleep’s phone light wouldn’t do much good. He automatically pulled his arms in, hands pulling absently at his tie. This was his room. So why, in the dark, didn’t it feel like it? He felt his tongue go dry. He didn’t like this at all.

It was easier when he was in here before with Patton, probably from the adrenaline. But it had long left his system.

But Logan Sanders was not afraid. He was never afraid.

Still, he flinched as a chilled hand grabbed his arm. The grip was tight, and it dragged him backwards. He gasped softly before the hand spun him around. He came face to face with Sleep. In the dark, his scowl was hard to see, but still apparent. His eyes bored into him. He grabbed his tie, ripping it from his hands and pulling him towards the bathroom door. Logan sputtered as he was flung inside, but relieved as the lights flickered on. He rubbed his neck before whipping around.

“What was that for?” He asked.

Sleep didn’t answer him at first. He stood there, facing the door he had just shut, hand still around the handle. He let out a surprisingly shaky breath and turned. His eyes had every bit of intensity as they had moments before, and Logan hated it.

What did I do? He wondered.

Walking until they were mere inches apart, Sleep growled.

“Did you not even try to look him over properly?” He asked. His voice was tight.

Logan blanked. “Of course I did,” he replied. “His… deformities, while strange, didn’t look otherwise injurious.”

“No, no, no,” Sleep spat. “I get that. I meant the human side. The Thomas side. Did you check it at all?”

Logan thought. He had tried, that’s for sure. But it was dark, and Patton had been squirmy. How much had he actually seen? Or, rather, how much had he missed? Fear pooled in his gut.

“I suppose I could have missed something. Why? Is something wrong?”

And just like that, Sleep’s eyes lost their trademark fire. They drooped, and Logan swore he saw him wobble ever so slightly. He thought about speaking, but he decided against it. With how unstable Sleep was, Heaven knew how it could blow up. So, he stayed silent, watching him run hands over his tired face. Then Sleep looked at him.

“Where do you keep your shampoo and shit?” He asked. Logan’s shock at seeing him act so normal was short lived. Instead, it was replaced by a kind of calm mutualness, He pointed under the sink. He watched as he opened the door and pulled out bottles of soap, conditioner, shampoo, and miscellaneous products that Janus had insisted on. Then he laid them out beside the tub and looked at Logan.

“You’re gonna have to do most of this,” he said. “He wants you, not me.”

“We’re going to bathe him?”

Sleep stared at him. “No. We’re going to drown him, clean the body and take over the Mindscape as the new Morality. Of course we’re going to bathe him, dipshit.” Sleep let out a long sigh. “Sorry. It’s just… a lot. You’ll see.”

Then he left the room with a soft click as the door shut behind him, leaving Logan alone alone with his anxiously budding curiosity.

What was wrong, exactly?

How bad was it?

Was it bad at all, or was this just Sleep being his dramatic self?

Logan didn’t know anymore, and part of him didn’t want to find out at all.

But nevertheless, he turned on the faucet, letting the warm water wash over his palms. The bath, just like the rest of the room, was clean. It was also small. In fact, everything about his bathroom was small because small was efficient. The overhead flickered slightly, and he realized with a scowl that he’d have to turn it off. If the main room had to be dark, then the bathroom had to, too.

Instead of waiting in dread, he decided to do it while the tub filled. Flipping the switch, his heart sped for a second while he fiddled with his phone, switching on the light and setting it on the sink. While not extremely bright, it was enough to shower the bathroom in a dim glow. And with Sleep’s phone, they would have light to bathe Patton. He smiled: maybe the dark wouldn’t be so bad.

He waited until the tub was full and turned it off. Not long after, there was a tapping at the door, and it swung gently open. In walked Sleep and a blanket-clad figure he knew instantly was Patton. Patton seemed unsteady and ready to fall, and Logan felt his heart drop. Had he missed something critical?

He watched in silence as the pair hobbled to the edge. They sat awkwardly down, Sleep holding him tightly as if he could fall at any second. Which, to be fair, was likely true.

“There ya’ go, Honey. Can you take this off for us?” Sleep said. He started to reach for the pseudo-hood Patton had pulled over his head, but stopped. Logan couldn’t help but wonder why. When Patton didn’t respond, they looked at each other, a silent agreement coming between them.

Logan and Sleep switched places, completely with a nasty look from him as Logan settled down. The message was clear: don’t let him get hurt.

And Logan, bless that man, promised in his heart that he would never let that happen.

As he sat down, the second phone turned on, and the figure flinched.

“Hey,” Logan said. “we need to take the comforter off. It’s impossible to get you clean with it on.”

When Patton simply drew up, Sleep sighed. “It’s okay. That’s Blue, remember? You like Blue. He’s nice, ain’t he?”

Sure enough, after a long second, the hood dropped to his shoulders. Then his waist. Before long, Logan could kick the blanket away.

And he saw him.

He saw all of him for the first time.

He barely kept himself from recoiling. The only thing that kept him from doing so was Sleep’s harsh glare, but even then it was hard. He felt a wave of nausea that he forced down.

He couldn’t do that.

Not right now.

And so, the two went to work.

The process took over an hour. The only reason Logan knew was because he checked his phone almost constantly. If it hadn’t been for that, he wouldn’t know how long it took.

It took fifteen minutes to disinfect his arms alone, and twenty to properly bandage (and rebandage, since the deeper cuts had a tendency to reopen).

Ten more to disinfect everywhere else.

Twenty to brace and bandage every injury that should have been treated long ago.

Fifteen to wash off the semi-permanent layer of dust off the human side.

And twenty-eight minutes were spent simply soaking in clean, soapless water— Logan had proposed the idea, since the animalistic half seemed to get irritated from the soaps and scrubs.

The hardest part was the washing. Logan hated seeing how Patton flinched from every touch, how he eyed them suspiciously.

But they did eventually finish, and they did eventually get Patton back to bed, where he promptly collapsed.

That left Logan and Sleep with the knowledge of what they had seen.


	9. I'm ~looking away~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: self harm mentions, self-deprecation, implied self harm. I can't think of anything else this time, but please tell me if you do!

Was Patton even alive?

He must be.

His arms hurt and his legs hurt and his face hurt. Everything hurt. They burned and stung, all while the sweet stench of lavender, too strong and overwhelming, filled his nose. His right side, especially, felt like it was on fire. He didn’t dare move in case he made it worse.

So, Patton stayed tucked under his blanket. It was starting to get too hot, but he wasn’t about to do anything about it. No, he could take it. He was Deceit, after all. He always talked about Deceit being powerful and dangerous. He was never the kind of person to get upset about a blanket. Why should he now?

Still, he wished he could sleep. As soon as Blue and Mocha had left him to the bed, they had tucked him in and left.

Part of him was glad. He didn’t even know them. And they had bathed him. He couldn’t remember it much, if at all, but the echoes of their hands still grazed his body where they touched. It felt unreal, that touch, that wonderfully terrible touch that made him want to sigh and die and cry and wither away in their arms until he was nothing more than dust.

He couldn’t help but feel a wave of either anger, shame, or a combination of the two. They had seen him. What did they think? Did Blue think he was gross, too, just like Mocha did? Maybe he had ruined his chances with both of them. Maybe that’s why the bath hurt so much: they were trying to hurt him.

He didn’t want to believe that Blue would hurt him. He really didn’t. He tried to remember their first meeting, back in the room. When he had seen light for the first time in what felt like forever.

But that was before they laid eyes on what he really was. They didn’t deserve to see what a monstrous thing he was.

That’s it.

Patton curled in on himself.  
That’s it.

That’s why everything hurt. It must be.

They were angry at him, weren’t they? They were angry that he let Him do all those things.

So, the other part of him was terrified. He couldn’t trust them. He didn’t even know them. At least he knew Him, more or less.

But them?

They were mysteries.

Patton didn’t like mysteries. Mysteries were like shadows: you never know what you’re jumping into. There could be devils and beasts just past the threshold, just out of sight, waiting to sink their teeth into whoever gets close enough. And all he’s ever known is beasts.  
First the beasts were tall and sharp, gritty and dark. Then they were shadows and whatever lie within them. Now they were lavender-scented and warm, but they were still beasts. They had to be. There was no other explanation. They were tricking him.

Letting that sink in, something broke in him. Maybe it was that twinge of hope he had left, or maybe it was a dam of sorts, but all he knew was that it was gone. There was an emptiness now, a painful void where he knew something should be, but couldn’t figure out what.

He had let himself believe he was safe. That was stupid. How could he have been so stupid? He was never safe. Blue and Mocha were not good. If anything, they were his own imagination lying to him again. Or, they were just His shadows playing games. Either was as likely as they were plausible.

With that realization, Patton gritted his teeth. Their slight, elongated points pinched his tongue and threatened to draw blood, but he didn’t notice.

He had to get out.

He got out of the first room (even if Blue helped), and he could do it again. He had to. He couldn’t trust Blue, or Mocha, or anyone. He had tried, but now was more sure than ever that he couldn’t.

He had no one.

Spurred on by a rush of fear-fueled adrenaline, Patton pushed himself up with his wobbly forearms. The bandaged cuts came alight with burning pain, but he barely paid it any attention. He had gotten used to doing that. Ignoring pain was something he had become very skilled at doing.

Then he tested his legs. They were even weaker than his arms, and more bandages rubbed at his thighs, but after a few minutes of shifting beneath the covers, he got enough feeling so that he could kick off the starred comforter. With that on the floor, he managed to peel back the sheet. And just like that, Patton was exposed.

He was clothed, at least, but the warmth was gone. The weight of the bedding was gone, leaving him vulnerable to the air as it nipped at his already sensitive skin. For a second he wanted to try and grab back up the blankets, but he stopped himself. If he did that, he may change his mind. He may never get free.

Biting back a whine, Patton slowly swung a leg over the edge. Then the other. With both feet on the ground, he pulled himself up. He teetered and wobbled. Standing without someone holding him—without Mocha or Blue holding him— felt strange and almost painful. It was as if his bones, after the—days? Weeks? He didn’t even know— he spent on the floor of the room, his bones had seemingly forgotten how to hold him up.

But still, they did. It took all his might, but within ten minutes he was up, taking small steps towards the door.  
Navigating the dark was surprisingly easy. He had expected to trip or fall, and his muscles had already grown taut in preparation. But he moved well, and the only things he hit were his own feet. He was used to the dark. It was his now.

When he finally reached the door, he leaned a cautious ear to it. Adrenaline surged through his veins. He faintly felt the agonizing burn in his arms and thighs and chest and, well, everywhere, but it felt far away. There, but detached. Like it had been for as long as he could remember.

He heard quiet speaking. Words, complaints, whatever they were, he heard them through the door. They were muffled, but definitely there.

Were they talking about him?

How many of “them” were there, anyway?

Mocha had said “all” of them. Just how many were in that “all”?

He squinted his eyes shut and squished even farther into the door until he was pressed flat.The voices were all the same, so he couldn’t distinguish between them. Why were they all the same? Blue’s and Mocha’s had been, too. It occurred to him that the voices weren’t much different from His. Or, at least when He wasn’t yelling in His deep, throaty growl Patton was so used to. That sent a chill down his back, and he swallowed. Even more evidence that they were all just one of His tricks. Maybe they were nothing more than extensions of Him, shadows waiting for when he let his guard down.

Patton hummed in thought. With as slow as he was going, he likely wouldn’t be able to run past them. And he definitely couldn’t fight them; his arms burned at the mere idea of more touch.

So, what could he do?

He played absentmindedly with his shirt. It was soft and cottony, pulled from one of Blue’s dressers. His fingers ran over his bandages, which were just thick enough to keep him from reopening the cuts on accident.

What could he do?

What could _he_ do?

What could he, ~~Patton~~ , Deceit, do to escape?

The answer sent a violent shudder through his stomach.

The answer, he realized, was that there was nothing he could do. He was powerless. He was nothing. He was weak. But what if he wasn’t himself?

He vaguely remembered all those times he shifted under His orders. He remembered how his skin knitted itself together, how his bones reworked themselves, how his face turned to dull scales.

Then, he remembered Him. His teased hair, His dark eyes, that special walk He did that was more of a prowl than anything. He imagined Him. His brain screamed not to, and for a moment he thought he would lose control.

Memories flashed through his head, and he almost collapsed on the floor. But something—the adrenaline, or maybe the slight possibility of freedom—came over him, and he was numb. He was cold. His heart seemed to slow to a stop, beating ever-so slowly in its cage.

Then something took over, and he had no thought.

He was instinct, he was feeling, he was pure and raw emotion.

He was fear and disgust and determination and hunger and unadulterated will to live.

And he wasn’t quite himself. He was something else.

Without meaning to this time, and for the first time that he could remember, he shifted of his own accord.

Had he any way to think, he would have wondered what he looked like. He would have questioned exactly who he was. But his being, starved now in too many ways to count, didn’t let him. Patton was following something he had no control over now. It wasn’t scary, but it wasn’t comforting, either. It was simply there. It was himself.

And so, with the last of Patton’s reasoning fading for the time being, he opened the door with closed eyes.

* * *

Roman looked between the other sides and Thomas as they spoke in rushed words that he couldn’t comprehend. He had zoned out as soon as Logan mentioned “self harm.”

Now he stared at his sword, wringing his hand around its smooth hilt.

This couldn’t be happening.

This wasn’t real.

This was just another one of Remus’s elaborate pranks. There was no way Patton was hurt, and even less of a chance that it was Virgil who hurt him.

Virgil was a light side. He was a good guy, just like Roman. Heck, they had even had a two-parter about this! Anxiety was good. Virgil was good.

And besides, Virgil and Patton loved each other. Not romantically, of course, but they loved each other. Out of any of the sides, Roman would argue that their bond was one of the strongest. No, this was Remus’s doing. It had to be. Either his or Janus’s, designed to be revenge for making fun of his name. Any moment now, Remus was going to jump up with that crap-eating grin of his and yell, “Surprise!”

But Remus didn’t yell. He didn’t jump up. All he did, and all he had been doing since Logan and Sleep came out, was hold Janus in the corner with uncried tears building in his eyes. Roman swore he saw his shoulders shaking.

Then the door opened and the talking fell away, leaving the hallway dead silent. Roman didn’t look up at first. He couldn’t. Blood roared in his ears. The only person in there was Patton. Maybe this wasn’t real after all!

Yeah.

Everything Logan and Sleep and seen was a mistake. A big ole’ misunderstanding. That’s it. Now Patton was going to waltz through the door and go bake snickerdoodles, or whatever Patton did when he was happy. He didn’t look up until Thomas whispered, “Virgil?”  
Then Roman’s head snapped up. For an instant he had hope of seeing his emo friend and of making sure he was okay. He could fix this. Virgil and himself together, they could sort this big mess out. Virge could clear everything up, and then they can make breakfast. Easy!

But he wasn’t met with what he hoped. The Virgil he saw wasn’t the Virgil he wanted. The person in the doorway looked scared and desperate, a terrifying look in his eyes.

More importantly, the person in the doorway was dressed head to toe in black. Black hoodie, black eyes, black skinny jeans ripped at the knee, black combat boots. It was Virgil, alright, but something in Roman knew that it wasn’t _his_ Virgil. They weren’t the same.  
From the corner, Remus croaked. “Virgil” whipped around to stare at him, cocking his head. He bared his teeth just enough to see there sharpened points, which he definitely didn't remember Virgil having before.

Remus sunk out with Janus.


End file.
